Page 27 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“Fine.” I sigh in defeat. “Next time I’ll get you to spit and shake on the specific details. But I have deeply unconventional tastes in dream day trips and I can’t expect either of you to understand that. Go on your date, and go playing culture vulture,” I tell the two of them. “I’ll meet you at the fountain at four o’clock, okay?”
“It’s a date,” says Radhika, who clearly has only one thing on her mind.
“Deal,” Kelly echoes.
My friends waste no time in getting away and I let out another sigh, but this one is of utter contentment. Finally I have some proper and preciousmetime, I realise, as they retreat into the distance, going their separate ways.
I’m not quite taken back to fourteen-year-old me, and my first experience of a Portuguese bakery. But something about thepasteleriaI am about to walk into feels magical and otherworldly all the same. A strange sensation washes over me and I can’t quite label it, other than to say it feels like everything will change when I leave this place today. It takes me a while to adjust to the darkness and the mahogany furniture that’s so typical of these old authentic eateries, and see that the bakery is buzzing inside. Half of it is reserved for those who wish to stay in and enjoy theirpastéis de nataat their leisure, and the other half is a thriving bakery counter selling, just as Leona had suggested, nothing but custard tarts. Selling them like hot cakes! They are plain, no-nonsense custard tarts. That goes without saying. But here in the palm of tradition it works. In fact, my own style of business would be inconceivable lining these streets.
“O que você gostaria?” asks the little old lady at the counter. She has inquisitive brown eyes and a bright red floral scarf wrapped around her low bun. It’s a hairstyle I haven’t yet contemplated and I am mesmerised by its simplicity and elegance. You simply don’t see senior citizens attempting this kind of look in the UK, where everyone seems to go in for the standard granny vogue of short back and sides, stylish as that may look on some. The lady’s two female sidekicks of a similar age look equally glam in their own right.
I open my mouth and quickly shut it again, suddenly realising I haven’t even had the gumption to learn a few basic phrases in Portuguese. What a typical Brit abroad. I point at the tarts instead and show the lady I would like two; hopeful that the sign I am making with my fingers is not inappropriate in this country.
She smiles and scoops up a pair of tarts with a large palette knife, putting them in a brown paper bag, and passing them to me. I hand over my euros. Clutching the pastries to my chest, I am just about to point at the tables behind me to see if I might be allowed to savour mynatasinside instead of on the street, when a burst of activity spills into the serving area through the kitchen door, all arms and gestures and streams of Portuguese, all male and moreish, all…
Tiago.
Tiago?
But no. It can’t be. I’m mistaken. My eyes are playing tricks on me yet again. That, or I’m in a trance. Because his family is based in Faro. I know I’m in apasteleria, and I know that some might say that was a slightly crazy place to head if I didn’t want to bump into the guy. But thispasteleriais in Tavira. I made a calculated decision about today’s trip. I looked at the map in Kelly’s guidebook over and over, for goodness sake. The distance from Faro to Tavira is thirty-eight kilometres. That’s like the distance between Weston-super-Mare and Bristol. It’s as safe as houses, when you don’t want to meet your biggest enemy.
I edge my way backwards in a flap. There’s no way I’m sitting inside now. But it’s too late. The little lady is determined to find me a seat, and won’t have her customer leaving without the truepasteleriaexperience. She squeaks away in Portuguese and says something over her shoulder to the apparition. That’s when I realise the man standing behind that counter is made of atoms and molecules, just like anyone else, because he ducks down to grab a plate, spins to pass it to his– his grandma?– our eyes meet… and the plate smashes.
Well, at least it’s not always me who is the clumsy one, then.
Grandma huffs and puffs and Tiago just stands there as rigid as one of those Nutcracker dolls– minus the big hat and moustache. I find I’m doing the same, to be fair, with the little old lady in the middle of us both, arms everywhere, sharp tongue telling the inept young man behind her what she thinks of his waiter skills.
I’m too scared of her to run for it, so I meekly take the seat she indicates and consider tipping the tarts out of the paper bag so I can hyperventilate into it. This I had not expected. Spots dance before my eyes and I panic that I’m going to pass out. I hear china being swept, then the chink-chink of fragments being thrown in a dustbin, but I don’t dare look up. I’ll get some sugar down me and get out of here. Suddenly Kelly’s castle expedition– or even playing gooseberry with Radhika and Miguel– seem like very attractive prospects.
Except I can’t do that, because I sense somebody is walking toward me, and, like a real waiter in a café, his timing is impeccable: right when I have a chunk of flaky pastry lodged in my throat.
“You came!”
This cap-free version of Tiago, his dark glossy hair impeccable, immediately spots my predicament. He darts back to the counter, returning with a much-needed bottle of water which I knock back in one, spilling unsightly dribbles down my chin as I try to prevent myself from choking.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I can’t help but return his words from earlier in the week, wiping my chin with the back of my hand, in a most unladylike manner, thanks to the absence of a napkin. “I th… thought Tavira was no man’s land, that’s all.”
Tiago’s eyes light up and he takes the seat opposite me, lacing his fingers together and propping his chin on his knuckles.
“How so?”
He’s so close to me, the scent of CK One Shock is acting like smelling salts. I can see the flecks of gold in his deep molten chocolate eyes. It’s turning my insides into one hot pool of uninvited lust that’s in danger of spiralling somewhere rather intimate, so I fiddle with the tart’s pastry instead and will myself to simmer down.
“You kept on about Faro so I just assumed you’d be equallyfar-ohaway from me. I guess I got that a bit wrong.” I cringe at my pathetic play on words.
“To be fair, you never really gave me a chance to explain that my invitation was to come here: to my grandmother’spasteleria. When I was trying to work out where you were staying, I used Faro as a kind of drawing pin in the map of the Algarve. I mean our plane did land there, after all.”
I pop a piece of the sublimenatain my mouth, determined not to show how much I’m enjoying it. It’s all very well playing with my food but the sooner I eat this, the sooner I can extract myself from this hideous dilemma.
“Right. Erm, I suppose a belated thanks is in order for the passport fiasco,” I say after swallowing my mouthful and ensuring history doesn’t repeat itself by tipping back the dregs of my water. “So, yeah,obrigadofor that.”
“Obrigada,” Tiago corrects me. “You’re a woman.” He lingers over the word and his eyes roam my face. It’s not uncomfortable, and yet something about his body language makes it feel like the prelude to being whisked off to bed. “You say the Portuguese word for thank you with an ‘a’ on the end.”
I know that really. Of the four or five words I’ve picked up in Portuguese, that tiny but important distinction is one of them. But of course I am under his spell, quite unable to defend myself. I resort to gritting my teeth instead.
“Anyway, what do you think of thepastéis? Amazing, aren’t they?”
“A bit… yes.”
